Afterimage
by Ashlynn Lilacflower
Summary: The war has come to an end. Hermione Granger feels like she's in charge of rebuilding the world - and Hogwarts. Distractions, however, come in many forms, not the least of which are her responsibilities as Head Girl and her supposed-to-be-boyfriend, Ronald Weasley, among others. What's a lioness to do? (Krumione, Romione, Harry/Ginny.)
1. Sear

_March 23, 1998._

She could feel her breath rasping in her throat, feel the fire that lit in her veins, feel the flames burning in the flesh of her arm.

There would be no coming back from this.

In her intellectual mind, she knew that a scar was no more than a mark left on the skin by a stubborn wound. It would be an angry red as it healed, then a blush mauve, then a soft white. Worst case scenario, it would never fade, and she'd be left with a mark as infamous as Harry's lightning scar. And surely, it would be infamous: the witch whose breath washed heatedly over her face would never miss an opportunity to gloat. A heavy knot settled into her stomach.

Hermione Granger would forever be identified as _mudblood_ if the wrong side won this war. She would be a traitor to wizard-kind, to magical humans and creatures alike. And yet, all she could think of were the roses that had bloomed from the end of her wand when it had chosen her.

A whimper escaped her, echoing in the quiet air around her and swallowed by the vaulted ceiling above.

"Come now, wretch, you can be louder than that. _Crucio._ " The words hissed in her ears, so close it seemed they were in her own head. A shriek sounded; the delayed pain in her throat told her that it was her own. Searing, pinching, unbearable heat pierced her. She twisted, contorted, but every movement made it worse. There was no escape, no position that could relieve the agony.

"Aunt Bellatrix, end this."

The pain did not stop, but it diminished. Hermione took a deep breath while her lungs were not so much afire. She willed herself toward sleep, toward unconsciousness. _You gave them something they think they can use, that's all you're good for. Harry and Ron have a chance. She will kill_ you _._

"You'd deny me some fun, Draco, when you should be having some, too? Cissy told me this mudblood slapped you in third year."

She was halfway to sleep, but pride glowed through the fog in her mind. _Amazing. Bouncing. Ferret._ She might not have transfigured him, but she could still feel the satisfying sting in her palm and the ringing of her skin against his from the day he had insulted Hagrid the year before. _I am a Gryffindor_.

A new moan ground out of her throat. Hermione rolled over onto her stomach. She was a Gryffindor, but sometimes the bravest thing to do was run away. Her arm moved out in front of her and pulled her body forward across the hard, cold wooden floor. Her clothes and the blood on them made her slip, but she still made progress with every motion.

"The Granger I knew might be worth something, but this is a different creature. She's pathetic. She hasn't even tried to stand her ground."

The pain grew even less, and Hermione had to grind her teeth together to keep herself from turning around. _If they think you're broken, maybe they'll let you go. Or at least parade you as a prize of war._ She could effect change if they did. Subtle change, but perhaps it would be enough to turn the tide. _Merlin, you should have lived while you had the chance. Gone to Bulgaria. Found Luna. Made a difference that didn't end with the people you made it for dying anyway._

"Suit yourself," crooned the high, delirious voice.

A knee slammed into Hermione's back, and she let out a cry. Her neck pinched, her scalp burned as her head was pulled back by her hair. Long-clawed fingernails twisted and tangled and pressed new cuts into her skin. "Where are you going, little kitten?" Revulsion sparked in Hermione at the belittlement of her House's mascot. "Did you think you could just crawl away and we'd let you go?"

Hermione shook her head as carefully as she could, wincing at the pressure of the woman's nails against her scalp. Cold steel pressed to her throat, and she took a sharp breath inward.

"You won't get a merciful death from me, dear," said Bellatrix. Hermione bit her lip to keep her sob contained. "My nephew might, but that depends on how quickly he inter-"

Footsteps vibrated in the floor beneath Hermione's body. The air filled with shouts.

Time seemed to stop mattering as Hermione was hauled up by her hair, the steel of the dagger against her throat slowly warming. She felt it prick through her skin and knew she would have a second new scar. This one, though, she could erase. It was not cursed. It was different from the letters carved into her arm.

 _Mudblood_.

She closed her eyes and opened them again, and when she focused on the chandelier above her head, what she saw was sharper than anything she had comprehended in the last several hours.

Large ears, grass-green eyes, and a pair of socks she had knitted last Christmas.

Inside her chest, Hermione's heart glowed. She lowered her eyes to the men standing across the room and recognized a dark head and a red one, both staring at her. She shifted in panic as they began to lower their wands - but the screeching of the chandelier gave them their chance.

A force knocked the wind out of her and propelled her forward; the wound on her neck stung in the open air, but arms closed around her and pulled her out of the way as the chandelier crashed deafeningly into the floor behind her. Everything was a blur. The coherent thoughts in her head screamed behind a foggy glass barrier, trying to find a way around it but not succeeding. Hermione couldn't think; she could barely feel. She felt like one of the blank canvases that had held a photo of her at her parents' house: staring out at the world, missing the focus with which to understand it. She caught the flash of a spell on Harry's glasses and saw white-blond hair fly backward in the reflection.

But the only thing that anchored her to the world were Ron's arms and his blue, blue eyes, daring anything to come to close to them.

Ron's arms didn't let her go when they twisted tightly through what Hermione recognized as Apparation, didn't let her go when they landed hard on a wet sand beach, didn't let her go when Harry saw the house elf blood on the silver knife.

And all the while, the coherent voices inside her head screamed for Dobby, for Harry, for Ron, for her parents, for revenge. They screamed for her wand. They banged around, but she couldn't put a voice to their words, couldn't move. Her body felt frozen with Ron's warm arms wrapped around her.

Hermione had been burning, but now she was chilled, and all she wanted was to thaw.


	2. Pall

Quotes from Harry Potter & the Deathly Hallows and Harry Potter & the Half-Blood Prince by J.K. Rowling, as well as Anne of Green Gables by L.M. Montgomery.

* * *

 _May 3, 1998_.

The walnut wood was smooth and cool beneath her skin, the grain fine beneath the scrape of her fingernails. Hermione held the wand in both hands, one on each end, testing the bend in the wood. It gave not a millimeter; it was unyielding, just as Ollivander had promised. Still, Hermione wondered every day how much pressure it would take to snap it. Every day, she resisted the urge to burn it, lest Fiendfyre burst from the dragon heartstring at its core when the wood became ash. She resisted the urge to throw it into the lake, in case it polluted the water and put an end to the Giant Squid's reign.

Above all, she resisted the urge to snap it because she did not want to find out that she didn't have the strength to do it.

The wand itself was not evil. It had turned its allegiance to her in the day since the battle; Hermione could feel it. Every spell she cast taught the wand her style, her will, her alignment. But it had known and committed evil acts, and sometimes, Hermione wondered if it had ever been as reluctant for its first master as it had been for her.

Had it been reluctant when it had turned the Cruciatus Curse on Frank Longbottom?

On Alice Longbottom?

Sirius?

Hermione herself? Had it been reluctant to curse the letters that the silver knife had carved into her arm?

Had this wand ever refused to do anything its master had asked of it?

Hermione was near certain that it had not. In the long hours that had passed since it had truly become hers, she'd grown more certain. It had no qualms; its first master had never taught it any morality, as the witch herself had not had much. And now… Hermione wasn't sure that that was something it could learn from her. She had morals, but her will felt shaken. This wand wouldn't learn morals from repairing the damage done to Hogwarts Castle. It would be better done healing those wounded by the falling rubble or by casting its first Patronus Charm.

Tilting her head back, Hermione looked up at the dawning summer sky. It had finally cleared of smoke and the filmy remains of the broken protective spells that had filled the air after the battle. The smell of the sunlight hitting the dewy grass around her was almost too much of a contrast to the reminder of evil that she held in her hands. She put the wand back in its place between her belt and her waistband before she could give in and throw it across the lawn.

Merlin, all she wanted to do was go home. To touch the rose petals that she had preserved between the pages of _Hogwarts: A History_ and to remember what they had smelled like when Mr. Ollivander had handed the enormous blooms back to her that day in his shop. She had stored them in a desk drawer in her parents' house before leaving; she couldn't risk them being damaged. _Hogwarts: A History_ might have come along for her journey, but it was a book. While the copy she owned felt like it could be the only one that truly belonged to her, it could be replaced, just like her first wand. The roses could not, and so they were at home, where she desperately longed to be.

But she was a grown witch now, and she had a job to do. She had fought her battle. Home could wait a few more days. It would not _be_ home until she retrieved her parents from Australia, anyway.

Taking a deep breath, Hermione reached out a hand. Her fingers brushed over the marble of Professor Dumbledore's tomb, steady for the first time since she had seen Hagrid in chains. She pulled the wand from her belt again and pointed it at the ground. " _Inardesco creo marmore_ ," she murmured, slowly raising her wand toward the sky. Flame burst from the grass on the lake shore between the tomb and the lapping water. The fire looked like a shroud, like those which all the bodies in the Great Hall had worn in the silence after Voldemort had fallen. White, clean, billowing in the breeze that had come through the shattered windows from across the lake. " _Creo marmore_." The wide white blaze rose higher, until it was taller than the tomb that stood before Hermione, until it was taller than Hermione herself. " _Finite._ "

The flames whirled away from each other, parting and swirling into smoke and warm air. In their wake, a blank marble wall stood. It shone in the new summer sunlight, nearly blinding her as she walked around the end of her headmaster's tomb to look at it. The marble was of a fine grain, barely veined. It, like the wand in her hand, was cool to the touch, and just as lacking in intent. It would become whatever she wanted it to be, if she had the nerve to change it.

Hermione set the tip of Bellatrix Lestrange's wand to the stone.

 _The Battle of Hogwarts - 2 May 1998_

 _History is written by the victors, but in times of war, neither side can be truly victorious. Loss and grief will be known to all, and all we may do is remember:_

'It is the unknown we fear when we look upon death and darkness, nothing more.'

 _Albus Dumbledore_

 _In memory of those who lost their lives on each side of the battle, we raise this wall to remind us that the last enemy that shall be destroyed is death._

 _Until then, we live._

Lifting the wand away from the stone, Hermione felt her heart stutter as she recalled the list of names. So many of them had been brought down by the witch who had once wielded this wand. The first name, more than any other, filled Hermione with heartache.

 _Lavender Brown_. The grinding sound that the wand made as it etched her name into the stone made Hermione's gut clench. She had treated the girl so pettily, so poorly… And yet, it had never occurred to Hermione to hesitate to save her. After the fact, she wondered if she might have - if time had paused for those few seconds which meant Lavender lost too much blood, if moments had passed and she had run in slow motion, lifted this wand too slowly. Lavender had been her roommate, Ron's first kiss - possibly his first love - but there was no inkling of jealousy lurking in Hermione's veins. Only that heavy feeling in the pit of her stomach, a knotted tangle of nerves. The only thing that kept her together after writing out _Colin Creevey_ was the name she carved a few lines below it: _Fenrir Greyback_.

She had blasted him through a banister, and that and an enormous crystal ball had finally been enough to stun the rabid beast. At Malfoy Manor, she vaguely remembered Bellatrix Stunning him with three wands, but even that had not been enough to put him down. Trelawney had managed it with only a ball of glass. Ron and Neville had ended his terror for good after the centaurs and the house-elves had charged.

The other names she had memorized in alphabetical order seemed to come letter by letter, keeping her from comprehending their meanings until, finally, she forced the wand to write out _Bellatrix Lestrange_.

She hoped it was a powerful lesson to the wand, but also wondered if she was putting too much stock in its perceptive abilities.

The rest of the names made her grip the wand even harder. _Nymphadora Lupin_ came after the name of the aunt who had slain her, followed by _Remus Lupin_. Twenty names filled the space between the Lupins and the one who was the cause of so much death and destruction.

 _Tom Marvolo Riddle_.

In smaller print below his name, Hermione wrote out: _The first victim of Lord Voldemort_.

The idea had been Harry's; for all her claims of objectivity, Hermione had been just as keen as Ron to paint Voldemort only as a Dark wizard. Harry had seen another side of him, though, a side that was just a boy learning to harness his magic on his own and toward a misguided purpose. Ron's snort had been completely disbelieving, but Ginny had spoken up in agreement. Her brother had gone quiet at that, and the Headmaster's Office had been blessedly silent for a moment or two before the next casualty was discussed.

 _Doran Scabior_. The name had taken them ages to find in the records. Her skin still crawled at the thought of the Snatcher's fingers on her skin, but it was nothing to the scar that was still puffy and angry beneath her sleeve.

 _Severus Snape_. Her fingers began to shake as she etched his name, and her wrists began to tingle as her breath shortened. Hermione snatched her hand away from the wall just in time to avoid marring it as sparks shot from the end of the wand. She took a deep breath and let it out, her lungs squeezing in her chest. Why had she volunteered for this? It might be a complex piece of magic, but another could have done it. Professor Flitwick had built the white tomb behind her with the help of the other professors. Why had she subjected herself to this, to seeing their pale faces behind her eyes again?

Hermione leaned her head against the cool marble as the sound of her breathing in her ears overtook her. Indents of letters pressed into her forehead, but when she closed her eyes, she was in the Shrieking Shack, muffling her own screams. She could almost feel Ron's hand pressed tightly to her mouth, see a flash of silver light on dark crimson in the dim room. The gleam of Nagini's scales as she'd wrapped her mouth around the Potions Master's neck still shone beneath Hermione's eyelids. Merlin, she would not have wished Snape's death on anyone - not on Malfoy, who had stood there as she was tortured - not even on Voldemort himself. _Why not just use a Killing Curse? He had been faithful, he had been good…_

Of course, in the end, Snape had been neither of those things, but Voldemort had not known that.

Slowing her breathing, Hermione shook out her numb hands for the third time that day. A shower of sparks cascaded from the wand and died. _A doctor would tell you that you have anxiety as a result of an extreme trauma. It can be fixed, but not right now, and maybe not for a long time._ She pulled her head away from the wall.

The names of giants, centaurs, house-elves, Death Eaters, Order members, and Hogwarts students filled the space between Snape's name and the last: _Lord Voldemort_.

A hundred and twenty-eight names had been carved in the stone.

Beneath them, Hermione wrote the last words that were required of her.

 _Encased herein are the remains of those who died to protect Hogwarts, and to whom it will always be home._

* * *

 _May 3, 1998._

Silver animals near filled the Great Hall as they awaited their instructions; onlookers had awe and astonishment written on their faces, but Hermione merely sat on a bench, observing. Bellatrix's wand was clasped between her hands again. Hermione had come to think of the position as a threat to dismantle it if it misbehaved particularly badly. Professor McGonagall and the Order sent dozens of Patronuses far and wide, calling wizarding families out of hiding.

In between the Patronuses fleeing through the doors, stretchers carried the last of the injured to the Hospital Wing and the dead to the entrance hall. A quarter of the bodies had been claimed before Hermione had come in from the grounds, the new memorial wall left behind her. She had released another quarter to families when she had returned, taking the place of a thoroughly overwhelmed Ron. With a kiss pressed to her forehead, Ron had made her promise to attend Fred's wake later in the day. Hermione had, for reasons that eluded her, agreed. The last she'd seen of him, he had been running down the stairs to the fresh air, hellbent on going home with the rest of his family. Fred had gone home, too, one last time.

As she sat there in the hall on her break from standing over the fallen, Hermione asked herself the same questions.

 _Why do you do this to yourself? Why not leave instead of watching these faces file past?_

A freckled hand covered her shaking fingers. Hermione looked up, found bright brown eyes and deep green ones looking down at her, and took a deep breath. Pulling her hands away from Ginny's and loosening her hold on the walnut wand, Hermione stood. "What can I do?" she asked.

"The professors will take care of the rest," said Ginny. "There's nothing left, Hermione." Her tone was coaxing, so unlike the hot-tempered redheads she knew. _She saw your raw nerves, didn't she? She saw you shake._

Harry held out a scratched hand. "Mr. and Mrs. Weasley are probably waiting for us, and Ron is waiting for you."

Despite the blood-stained stone beneath their feet, a tiny smile curled at the corner of Ginny's mouth, and Hermione made her best effort to return it.

Hermione hugged a filthy, tearful Hagrid on her way out of the Hall and passed through more Patronuses than she could count. Every one warmed her a little more, filled her with a little more vigor - and then she walked into the entrance hall.

Sheets in white and House colors shrouded forms across half the floor; neat rows were still being laid out by the enchanted stretchers. Her hand tightened around Harry's as they walked determinedly by them, waving a hurried goodbye to the students patrolling the grounds and fetching up Oliver Wood on their way to the Apparition boundary.

The Burrow might not be her home, but she was happy to go there. It would be more homey than any place she had been in the last year.

* * *

 _May 3, 1998._

Hermione did not expect to arrive to a party. Nor, by the expression on his face, did Harry. Ginny pulled them along all the same, and by the time they reached the door, Hermione understood that it wasn't _quite_ a party.

The Burrow had been taken over by a congregation of people drinking firewhiskey and shouting over one another. Charlie was carrying on in the garden; Percy sat somberly in the living room, talking with an old woman who Hermione recognized, to her dismay, as Great-Aunt Muriel. Oliver Wood removed himself from their group and went to slap a very drunk Lee Jordan around the shoulders. Ginny and Harry locked the broom cupboard before anyone could take an inebriated joyride, especially the dragon tamer threatening to have a flying table tourney in the orchard.

Her arms crossed as she spotted Ron in the kitchen, leaning against the door frame and holding a firewhiskey in one hand and a pastry in the other.

 _That cannot mix well._

Crossing the kitchen, Hermione pulled the bottle gently from his grasp. Ron reluctantly let it go. "We buried him," he muttered.

"Where?" she asked, lifting the bottle to her lips.

"The graveyard in the village."

Hermione gulped down a mouthful of Ron's firewhiskey and felt the warmth spread through her veins. When he reached out to take it back, she let him have it; she would not become one of the loud, near-drunk people slurring over their memories of Fred. "Where's George?" she asked.

"Mum and Dad are still with him out there."

Hermione wheeled around to scan the crowd that had somehow managed to shove itself into the Burrow. "Who did they leave in charge of _this_?" Her voice came out high and incredulous and more judgmental than she had intended; Hermione blamed the alcohol. She might have had only a sip, and only just now, but it _was_ magical - or so she told herself.

"Bill's 'round somewhere."

And indeed, Hermione spotted him on the staircase with Fleur at his side, her pale hair shining in the yellow light. The scars in his cheek were dark and he looked sallow and stern, but he wasn't holding a bottle. Instead, his wife's pale, long-fingered hand was held in his own.

Satisfied, Hermione murmured, "I'd like to go to the cemetery."

The gaze Ron regarded her with seemed both resigned and confused, but he put his pastry down and washed his hands of the sticky frosting all the same. He laced his fingers with hers and offered her another sip of the firewhiskey.

The walk to the graveyard was quiet, the May sun warming the air more than Hermione thought it should. The birds chirped in the grass around them. She felt far more grim than the day around her, than the wake behind her; dread filled her stomach like a lead weight, though the infrequent sips of firewhiskey were beginning to dissolve it. "Fred would have liked this," she said, but she couldn't raise her voice above a whisper.

"He would," Ron said, "but he'd have wanted to drink with us, and he'd drag George along. And Percy. And he'd get Gin going, too."

"Something tells me he'd gift her a _bottle_ of gin before he went." A small smile edged at her lips, and Ron snorted.

"She'd smash him upside the head with it. She likes her firewhiskey just fine."

Shaking her head, Hermione finally let her grin show.

The graveyard was just what she expected for a Muggle cemetery, although perhaps a bit larger than was needed for Ottery St. Catchpole; names of the wizarding families who lived on the outskirts of the village appeared on the headstones as often as those of the more ordinary folk in the village. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley passed by them on their way through the wooden gate, and Mr. Weasley squeezed her shoulder as he went. Hermione did her best to offer him a smile.

They found George at the rear of the cemetery, cradled in the roots of a tree. A bottle was clasped between his hands, long since emptied. Ron took a breath and sat down beside his brother, leaning into his shoulder. The only acknowledgment George made to his presence was to sway to the side to make room for Ron in the space between the tree roots.

Standing there for a moment, Hermione studied the headstone. The earth beneath it was well turned; just as Harry had not used magic for Dobby, the Weasleys must not have used magic to bury Fred. The granite that formed his headstone was slightly irregular around the edges and not at all shiny, unlike the Muggle headstones Hermione was accustomed to seeing.

"Mum made it herself," said a raspy, ragged voice. Hermione looked to George, who pointed at the stone with the neck of the bottle in his grasp.

 _Fred Gideon Weasley._

 _1 April 1978 - 2 May 1998_

 _Life is worth living as long as there's a laugh in it._

Sighing, Hermione sat down on George's other side, pressing her shoulder into the warmth of his side. She clinked her own bottle against the empty one in his hands and offered it to him, but he shook his head. "He's probably getting annoyed at me for drinking this poison," he said, holding out his own bottle and studying it.

"Charlie would disagree," offered Ron, but George shook his head.

"Charlie's acting the prat."

"Perce's holding off Muriel for you."

"Tell him I say thanks."

Apparently taking this as a dismissal, Ron made to get up. Hermione shot him a look behind George's slumped shoulders, and he sat back down, looking a bit more cowed than she would have expected. Perhaps that was the alcohol, too. "I'd like to sit here for a while, if you don't mind?" she said to George.

Ron's brother shrugged noncommittally.

Letting out a quiet breath, Hermione leaned back against the tree and stretched her legs out. Resting the bottle against her chest, she let the tree hold her. After a moment, she held out a hand to George.

His fingers clung to hers with a strength she didn't know he still possessed.

 _Two more days,_ they seemed to say as they pressed into the tendons in the back of her hand. _Two more days, and we all can mourn in peace._

They were, almost without a doubt, the two longest days of Hermione's life.


	3. Ache

_May 5, 1998._

The morning of the memorial dawned cool and clear, just as the day before it and the day before that had. Hermione woke on the sofa in the Burrow's living room, cozy and wrapped up in Ron's arms beneath the blanket.

She had no doubt he'd curled around her in the night to stifle her nightmares.

After the wake had ended midafternoon, Hermione had taken a nap on the couch. It turned out to be a rather poorly thought-out nap, for the sounds of her thrashing and whimpering had drawn every ear in the house. Ron must have made excuses of some kind before bundling her off to his room to sleep on the bright orange bedspread. More than anything, Harry's look of astonishment had surprised her.

The nightmares had followed her since Malfoy Manor - how had he not known about them?

When she'd settled on the bed, Ron told her that he'd been keeping vigil over her since he'd noticed her tossing and turning in Shell Cottage. He'd sat down on the edge of the bed beside her. "Sometimes grabbing your hand was enough to make them go away, but most of the time I had to make some excuse to wake you up," he'd told her, his face downcast. He'd pulled at a stray thread on the comforter.

"Ron," she'd murmured. He hadn't been looking at her, so he'd made a surprised noise when she had pulled him down onto the bed next to her. Pulling him close, Hermione had rested her chin on his shoulder and hugged him tight. "Thank you."

He'd returned the embrace, and Mrs. Weasley had walked in to ask after Hermione. From that moment, she'd relegated them to the couch if they were going to lie on the same surface.

Their sleeping on the couch turned out to be a necessity, because without him, Hermione was loud enough to wake even Charlie, who still seemed to be sleeping off what must have been an entire barrel of firewhiskey. So, much to her chagrin, at least half the family had seen her morning face - and morning _hair_ \- in the last two days before she could really wake up. Today was no exception, for although Hermione has just awoken in the dawn light, Mr. Weasley sat in an armchair across the coffee table from her and his snoring son. The _Daily Prophet_ in his hands had a moving photograph on the front that panned over the grounds of Hogwarts, showing all the damage done. The headline read, "END OF WAR BATTLE RESULTS IN MASS CASUALTIES."

Hermione groaned. _As if we need more reminders_.

A pair of spectacled blue eyes glanced at her over the top of the paper. "Good morning, Hermione."

"Good morning, Mr. Weasley," Hermione said, very carefully and very gently extracting herself from Ron's arms. She pulled the blanket back over his shoulders. Sitting in one of the empty chairs, she reached for her bag and Bellatrix's wand - and did her best to ignore the sensation of goosebumps rising on her skin when she touched the walnut wood. " _Accio_ socks," she muttered, and a pair of Ron's maroon and gold striped woolens jumped into her hands. Rolling her eyes, she set them down on the coffee table in front of Ron. " _Accio_ Hermione's socks," she tried again, and this time a pair of blue knee-highs hopped out. "Good enough," she muttered.

"You need a new wand," said Mr. Weasley, still watching her.

Hermione glanced up at him as she pulled her socks on and rolled her pajama bottoms back down over them. "Mr. Ollivander isn't set up in his shop again yet, and mine hasn't been recovered since the Snatchers took it. Besides, it's not a terrible wand." Mr. Weasley raised his eyebrows at her, and she shrugged. "It may have done some terrible things, but so did the Elder Wand. The Elder Wand mended Harry's wand and saved his life."

"It's not the same and you know it," growled an apparently woken-up Ron from under the blankets on the sofa.

Hermione bit her lip. She'd been repeating the same thing for the last two days: _it's not a bad wand, it's been forced to do bad things_. In her mind, she'd made comparisons between the wand and dogs whose owners taught them to behave aggressively. Despite that, and the fact that it had continued to behave well (if slightly mischievously), she could not deny that the thing made her skin crawl.

Before she could answer Ron, Harry came thudding down the stairs with Ginny right behind him. Both were already dressed and groomed in Muggle clothes, and Hermione felt a pit drop in her stomach. "What time is it?" she asked them.

"I dunno," was Harry's sheepish reply. At a look from Hermione, he shrugged. "McGonagall's Patronus woke us up and told us she wanted us at Hogwarts. Percy's set up a portkey."

"It's _time_ to find your shoes," said Ginny, looking Hermione over. "You'll be fine for the walk, but make sure to bring your toiletries and the proper clothes for the ceremony. We probably won't make it back to change."

Hermione held up the little bag that had accompanied her since before the night of Bill and Fleur's wedding.

Brightening considerably, Ginny said, "Well, that'll make this far easier. Shoes."

She ended up slipping on the pair of sturdy boots she'd worn in the Forest of Dean; the walk to Stoatshead Hill would be just as tough as the time they had hiked it on their way to the Quidditch World Cup in fourth year. This time, despite being in her flannel pajamas, she would be prepared. A harried Kingsley Shacklebolt had had Percy restore portkey scheduling only the day before - it would be the only way to get all the underage wizards who had fled Hogwarts back to the grounds in time for the memorial. Apparition wasn't an option for every family, after all; Dean Thomas, for one, had never learned to Apparate, and his mother was a Muggle.

The hike was just as long as Hermione remembered. All three of them were huffing and puffing by the time they got to the top, but Ginny was worst off; Harry and Hermione had been running for the last year.

Surveying the top of the hill, Hermione's eyes searched for an object that would lead them to Hogwarts. There were supposed to be two out here, one for the three of them and the other for the rest of the Weasley party. "Perce said ours is a boot again," said Ginny.

Harry cracked a smile. "Appropriate."

"That's what I thought." Ginny grinned back at him. The pair of them stood there, gazing at each other and hand and hand, and Hermione let them have their moment.

It ended up being a short moment, for she found the boot in the already-yellowing grass a few yards away from them. It was just a bit mossy, and she couldn't help but wonder if this was the same one she had laid her index finger on only four years ago. Taking in a lungful of the crisp air atop the hill, Hermione offered the boot to them. "Grab hold," she said.

* * *

 _May 5, 1998_.

Hogwarts was as they had left it: a flurry of activity. Professors seemed to stride about in every hallway, putting things back in their proper places. Professor McGonagall was leading her herd of desks - some limping severely - back to the classrooms she had gathered them from during the battle, now that other, more urgent work, such as repairing felled walls, had been attended to. Hermione had no idea how they had managed to get the castle back into even semi-presentable condition in the day and a half since she had been there; they must not have slept. On the other hand, they _were_ professors. They were far more proficient in magic than she would be for a very long time.

"Let's get you dressed, Granger," said Ginny, jarring Hermione from her thoughts. "And me dressed. I'm sure Harry can take care of himself." The redhead raised an eyebrow at her boyfriend, who shook his head ruefully and set off ahead of them. "Prefects' Bathroom for us," Ginny declared.

"Where's he off to?" asked Hermione.

"Myrtle's bathroom. Apparently she flooded the whole floor yesterday. Professor Flitwick said she's been asking for him, since he's the only one who's talked to her 'nicely' in the last few years." Ginny leaned in a bit closer to Hermione as Professor Sinistra passed them on the way up the staircases, leading a suit of armor by the hand. "Harry says she probably heard he died and is wondering why he hasn't come to share her toilet yet. I guess she offered at some point."

Hermione raised her brows, but took Ginny at her word. The ghost _would_ get upset during all the hubbub that came with the repairs. So much was happening around the castle, but no one had probably paid any attention to her. Shaking her head, Hermione followed Ginny up to the fifth floor.

When they finally convinced the statue of Boris the Bewildered that the passwords had all been reset after the battle, Hermione and Ginny found the Prefects' Bathroom in a state. Everything was dusty, and there was a hole blasted in one of the walls beside the stained glass window of the mermaid. She was still cowering against the opposite sill. Hermione felt like she had stared at it for a full minute before Ginny finally asked, "How did that even get there?"

"It doesn't matter, I suppose," replied Hermione. " _Reparo_."

Rubble flew back into shape as solid stone, collected more pieces of itself, and plugged the hole in the wall. The mermaid looked a little less frightened after Hermione used a Cleaning Charm on her glass and gave her a smile.

"Alright, what have you got in that bag?" asked Ginny from behind her. "I assume you still have your dress robes from Bill and Fleur's wedding."

"I can't wear those! They're not at all appropriate for mour- for a memorial." Hermione tried to scold herself for letting her words stick in her throat, but all she felt was distress. _Am I really going to mourn more than a hundred people without being able to_ say _I'm_ mourning _them?_

"Calm down, Hermione, we can turn them black, if you want." Ginny held out her hand for the bag. With a sigh, Hermione relinquished it and set out to _tergeo_ the dusty floor around them.

Ginny rummaged through the beaded bag and produced Hermione's lilac dress robes and shoes. " _Geminio_ ," she muttered, and Hermione looked sharply at Ginny as the witch flicked her wand at both. Two copies of each appeared, all lavender still, and Ginny stowed the originals back in the bag. With some non-verbal spell that Hermione did not know, Ginny prodded the dress robes and shoes; black dye spread from the tip of her wand, shading away the robes' color.

"Now," said Ginny, "come over here and let me do your hair. And think of something to say, Professor McGonagall wants you to speak."

Hermione's shriek of " _what?_ " echoed all the way across the fifth floor.

* * *

 _May 5, 1998_.

The satin fabric of her once-lilac dress robes barely whispered across her skin as Hermione did her best not to fidget in her seat. It felt as though her wand were burning a hole in her pocket, sitting here in this chair, unable to move without drawing attention to herself. Harry, Ginny, Neville, and Luna were guiding people to the pale wooden chairs that surrounded her. More had to be conjured every minute as people arrived - there had to be two hundred or more witches and wizards already present, not to mention the Muggle mothers and fathers who had, for the day, been made exceptions to the Muggle-repelling spells over the castle.

In spite of the open invitation that had been announced for the Death Eaters, however, not a single family associated with them had turned up to mourn. She had expected Mr. Crabbe to show up to memorialize his son, or for the Malfoys to appear to show some little respect for Narcissa's sister, but none had come. The ones who had retrieved the bodies of their relatives and friends after the battle - or had stolen away with them in the midst of the chaos and deserted Voldemort's cause - had more reason than most to attend, but all the combatants and families were welcome. If they had listened to the wizarding radio stations or read the _Daily Prophet_ or the _Quibbler_ that morning, they ought to have known that the memorial was today, and that peace had been sworn by all attending.

 _Yes_ , thought Hermione _, no one will even_ think _to pull a stunt like Aberforth did at Ariana's funeral._ The thought made her snort, and Professor McGonagall pursed her lips in the seat beside her.

"Do you find something funny, Miss Granger?" she asked.

"No, Professor, only imagining what would happen should someone begin a fist fight at this particular memorial."

"Ah, yes," said McGonagall, her lips quirking slightly to the side. Gladness bubbled up a little in Hermione's chest at seeing the elderly witch humor her, even if it was only with a slight smile. "I should think we would have quite another mess to clean up."

The prospect of such stopped Hermione's giggles rather quickly. She was embarrassed to have them in the first place, but such was an effect of her nerves; she had managed to prepare what she hoped was a short, sufficient speech that would take place before the rest of the formalities, but she'd had only two hours to really get it right. McGonagall had approved it, and while Hermione knew it would likely be forgotten if it fell flat, her stomach was still sick with butterflies that felt more like Cornish pixies.

The last portkey arrived half an hour later. Hermione had sat in nervous silence, very thankful that Ginny had turned her dress robes black; they were less likely to show the sweat that she was sure had gathered around her shoulder blades as she sat there. The sleeves, though, were looser and more sheer than she remembered. She had to keep pulling the fabric down over her forearm to hide the angry red letters carved into her arm.

For a brief moment, she was jealous that Harry's scars - the ones he'd received from his detentions with Dolores Umbridge - had already turned white. They were still painfully readable (" _I must not tell lies"_ ) but they had, at least, faded a bit. Hermione's own letters were glaring against the pale, smooth skin beneath her elbow. Professor McGonagall was already looking suspicious at her furtive movements, at the fact that her fingers had ended up gripping the fabric of her robes in her palm to keep the sleeves down. Ron was not here to make up excuses for her, still doing his duties as an usher, now seating people halfway up the hill to the castle.

Half of the wizards in Britain must have shown up for this. But really, could Hermione expect any less? Hogwarts was home. This was the only place they had to go to school, unlike the Muggle secondary schools. And, when they went to school, the spent three quarters of their adolescent lives in the castle. An attack on it was an attack on their heritage.

Once she was satisfied that everyone had been seated, or very nearly was, Professor McGonagall strode to the foot-high platform that had been raised in front of Albus Dumbledore's tomb. The lectern that had been situated at the front of the dais was Professor Sinistra's; Hermione recognized the constellations on its post and on the back as Leo and Draco.

Professor McGonagall cleared her throat, and Hermione felt the audience behind her come to attention at the amplified and all too familiar sound. The Transfiguration instructor squared her shoulders, folded her hands in front of herself across her dress robes, and spoke. "Thank you for coming to this gathering in memoriam of those who were lost in the Battle of Hogwarts. Today, we will shield the castle anew and celebrate the peace that has been hard-won on both sides." The professor paused for a moment, surveying the crowd. Hermione felt it, more than observed it, when McGonagall's eyes landed on her. "We will also mourn together the loss of so many witches and wizards. For the sanity of everyone here today, please refrain from speaking ill of the dead."

Whispers fluttered through the crowd, and as McGonagall's eyes flicked to her again, Hermione rose from her seat. Her sleeve still clutched in her hand, she made for the podium.

"Behind me," continued McGonagall, "a tomb and a wall of memory have been built, both of which may appear new to you if you have not been to Hogwarts in the last two years. Laid to rest in the tomb is Headmaster Albus Dumbledore, whose life was devoted to the instruction of young witches and wizards." Her tone, in less than a moment, went from the soft and reverent tone it had adopted when speaking of the old Headmaster to the severe Head of Gryffindor House that Hermione had known for the last six years. "The wall of memory was built by Miss Hermione Granger to recognize the victims of war, and Miss Granger will speak in a moment to address the note that I'm sure you all read in the paper this morning. If you have brought something with you that belonged to a lost loved one, form a line down the center aisle."

Nearly a quarter of the audience stood. Hermione closed her eyes for a brief moment and let out a breath. When she opened her eyes, she focused on Mrs. Weasley's bright red hair bobbing into the middle of the aisle. Her hand held George's as they took a place in line.

The next thing she focused on was the man with white-blond hair walking up the path from Hogsmeade and toward the crowd.

Her thoughts went up behind that foggy barrier again, and Hermione stared. She could nearly feel the adrenaline drip into her veins.

Draco Malfoy's hands were in the pockets of his black dress robes, his hair mussed from the windy walk he must have had, if he had indeed Apparated to the village. His pace was slow, but definitely not relaxed - he looked cautious, as if at any moment, one of the members of the crowd would turn, recognize him, and hex him before remembering the blanket of peace that was supposed to have been laid upon the ceremony.

Hermione's attention was only brought back to the moment at hand by Professor McGonagall's gentle tap to her elbow.

Fumbling in her robes, Hermione pulled Bellatrix's wand from her pocket and slid it up her sleeve; it would not do to have anyone see her still using it. The Weasleys might be one thing, but a whole crowd of witches and wizards? Some of them had surely been subjected to torture by its first master and would recognize its wicked curve instinctively. Hermione herself knew that particular jolt; she felt it near every time she touched it in her pocket or saw it when she turned her attention back to wherever she had set it down. Pointing her fingers and the wand hidden within her sleeve at her throat, she whispered, " _Sonorus_."

"Good morning, everyone," she began, trying not to wince at hearing her own voice projected so loudly. In the distance, Hermione saw Malfoy freeze. Perhaps he had not recognized her on the podium next to the professor; her frightening, slept-on hair had been done up into a severe bun by Ginny for the occasion, and black made her look particularly stark. Mourning, she supposed, was not a good look for her, and she was thankful for it. "Like many of you here, I woke up this morning to a world completely different to the one I have known for the last three years." She paused, running her eyes down the line. Andromeda Tonks sat very near the front with a baby on her lap, and Hermione's heart tugged so hard in her chest that her eyes watered. "This morning, when I awoke, the birds were singing, the family that surrounded me was snoring peacefully -" Near the back, Harry shoved a hand into Ron's hair and ruffled it violently. Even from here, Hermione could see the brilliant shade of fuchsia Ron's ears had turned. "- and the only horrors that the paper retold were those of three days prior." Shifting to clasp her hands in front of her, Hermione let McGonagall's presence put some steel back in her spine. "Today, I am here to honor to the ones I loved and will continue to love, and to honor everyone, from every side, who fought for their ideals, whatever they might have been."

Malfoy unfroze and took a step forward. The adrenaline in Hermione's veins - both from speaking and from the presence of so many and, most of all, him - spiked anew.

"It appears that most of you, whether from the radio or in the paper, heard the instructions to bring something that belonged to the loved ones you lost." The crowd murmured their agreement. "The items you have brought will be encased in the wall of memory, which, we hope, will be imbued with the love they once held for this place that is so sacred to the people of these isles. Their sacrifice will be remembered by witches and wizards for generations to come. Our hope is that, with such a reminder, the blessing that is peace will also be remembered." Hermione gripped Bellatrix's wand beneath her sleeve. _Please understand what I'm saying,_ she willed, but it was only an object; it might be magical, and it might be able to feel her emotions, but she had no idea if it would remember them.

Continuing, Hermione said, "If you did not hear of this notice, you may walk to Hogsmeade, where witches and wizards who are licensed in Apparition will help you retrieve an item to place in the wall. A warning: if you try to bring a cursed item, know that it will have been neutralized before it reaches the Hogwarts grounds."

A pair of witches who had been making their way toward the path to Hogsmeade paused and exchanged a glance, and then stood stock still, as if they had been caught in something. Beside Hermione, Professor McGonagall inclined her head toward Ginny and Harry, who moved to escort the two from the grounds. They would not be allowed to return; security was utmost, and the witches' had been a rather suspicious slip.

"The placement of objects inside the wall will be open until five o'clock this evening, after which a private dinner will be held in the Great Hall for the immediate family of those lost in the battle. After the dinner, non-magic parents will be escorted from the grounds, and the castle will be completely reshielded." Hermione took a deep breath, swaying a little bit. _Nearly there_. "The first in line may step forward."

Pointing her hand and the wand hidden in it at her throat again, she whispered, " _Quietus._ "

The first in line stepped forward, and the strings of Hermione's heart yanked painfully. A fourteen-year-old boy with a camera held in his hands came forward; a man who could only be his father, judging by their near-identical mops of curly brown hair, came along, his hand on his son's shoulder. As soon as he reached her, Hermione pulled the boy into her arms and threaded her fingers into his hair.

Dennis Creevey's sob was only barely muffled by her shoulder. "I still don't think it's real," he whispered.

Hermione's eyes connected with his father's, as warm a brown as Colin's had been. She remembered hiding her laughter at the young Gryffindor's antics with his camera from Harry and Ron, remembered consoling the pair of brothers when their efforts at making a badge in support of Harry had failed. The grief in their father's expression pinched the lines around his eyes.

Letting go of Dennis with one hand, Hermione held her hand out to Mr. Creevey. He took it for a moment, and she could not mistake the shaking that he tried to disguise with a warm squeeze. When he released her, she rubbed Dennis's back. "Come back to us next year, Dennis. Things will be better," she murmured into the boy's hair. "Not as good as they would be if he were here, but better than they have been."

Dennis sobbed a bit louder, and Hermione felt him nod against her neck. When he pulled away, his face was wet and flushed with tears. Reaching between them, Professor McGonagall waved her wand over the camera in Dennis's hands. When nothing happened, Hermione put an arm around his shoulders and led him off the platform, skirting the tomb. The empty rectangular space that she'd carved out of the wall of memory already had a few objects in it, placed there by staff members who had had the opportunity. Dennis placed the camera next to a photograph of a woman running back and forth through the canvas, her arms outstretched toward the ground. With a jolt, Hermione recognized Harry's mother, but couldn't bring herself to disturb the picture to get a closer look - it was held down with a glass paperweight in the shape of a crowned serpent.

Only Harry had the right to touch those particular objects.

With a nod to Dennis, Hermione escorted he and his father back over the dais and welcomed the next person in line.

A witch with sandy hair stepped forward, clutching a rabbit's foot amulet in her hand. Her brown eyes were earnest and near desperate as she held out her hand to Professor McGonagall, who waved her wand over the object without a word. When nothing alarming happened, the woman moved around Hermione without a hint of recognition and deposited the bauble beside Colin's camera. It was only when the witch turned again and Hermione caught her profile that she recognized her as the mother of Lavender Brown. A sick feeling settled in her stomach; the fluffy, white foot could belong only to Binky, the rabbit that had been killed in their third year.

Mrs. Brown brushed by her again without speaking a word to her.

Andromeda Tonks came forward next, balancing a sleepy Teddy on her hip. The infant's hair was as black as his grandmother's robes for now, but when Hermione and Harry had visited him the day before, it had been bright pink as he'd laughed at their baby talk. Andromeda's kind eyes flicked to Hermione's arm as she reached up to touch Teddy's hand, which he immediately put in his mouth. The older woman's lips tightened; for a moment, Hermione feared she had seen the slur etched into her skin, but Andromeda seemed relaxed again a split second later. She held out her free hand and revealed a trio of tiny wooden figurines, each the length of Hermione's thumbnail: a pair of wolves and a hare. Silent recognition flickered in Hermione's mind.

"Dora inherited her father's ways and his jack rabbit, until one day she didn't have the rabbit anymore," said Andromeda, leaning her cheek against Teddy's fuzzy hair.

Taking a deep breath, Hermione smiled at Andromeda and let her pass after McGonagall's security test, trailing a finger over little Teddy's chubby arm as he went by her shoulder.

Minutes became ages as the afternoon passed slowly by and the line of witches and wizards dwindled. George kept pulling Mrs. Weasley further back in line, letting others move in front of them. Every time she witnessed it, Hermione's heart wrenched. Eventually, Ginny joined him in line and threaded her fingers through his, and it seemed to steel her brother's nerves.

Stragglers came up the path from Hogsmeade, some returning with their items of remembrance tucked in the pockets of their robes or in their arms. At some point, Malfoy joined the line - she noticed when two large gaps formed on either side of him. _Well,_ she thought, _at least they have maintained the peace_.

If she was still standing on the dais when he reached the front of the line, though, Hermione feared she would be the one to breach that peace. That was, if Ron didn't do it before she could. His eyes had been locked on the back of Malfoy's head for the better part of the hour. Hermione did her best to greet every person who stood before her, but part of her was ever aware of Malfoy's position in line. His hands were in his pockets; she kept imagining a wand whipping out from beneath the folds of his robes and finishing the job that his aunt had begun.

Her breathing had begun to quicken by the time George, Ginny, and Mrs. Weasley stepped onto the platform. To her surprise, Mrs. Weasley and Professor McGonagall embraced while George stood in place, holding a piece of paper in his hands. Hermione could feel Ginny's eyes on her as her chest rose and fell even more rapidly, but she distracted herself by beckoning George into a hug.

The stout arms that looped around her waist were steadier than her own, which had begun to shake by the time she pulled him close.

"Easy now, Hermione," said his voice in his ear, grim and solemn. "Keep your face on. Can't have you losing it in front of someone who might report back to sweet old Rita."

A sharp breath filled her lungs. _Merlin's beard!_

Had anyone even thought of the press?

Closing her eyes, she leaned them into George's shoulder for a moment. The numbness that was beginning to work from her fingertips to the edges of her wrists didn't recede, but it didn't continue, either. _Hold it together._

She released George. "What do you have?" she asked, touching the edge of the paper in his hands. It had a table of items on it, and some messy handwriting that looked familiar, but didn't belong to either of the twins.

"Fred's first confirmed order," said George.

Hermione nodded.

"From Colin."

 _I'm going to be sick._

Her breathing ratcheted up again. Concern entered George's eyes and Ginny stepped forward, one of her hands out, but Hermione waved her off. "I'll be fine," she said, but her voice came out breathy. Standing straight, Hermione tried to slow her racing heart. Still watching her, George held out the paper to McGonagall to secure, then wrapped a hand around Hermione's elbow.

Pulled along by the trio of redheads, Hermione did her best to calm herself as she was led to the wall of memory again. George laid the paper gently against the back wall behind a few other artifacts. They stood there for a bit, looking at all the remnants that were what was left of so many lives. Mrs. Weasley's soft hand rubbed up and down Hermione's back. "You're very brave, dear," she murmured.

Hermione fought down her rising panic and denied the tingles that were reaching up to her elbows and beginning in her toes.

 _I am a Gryffindor._

With the hands of Ginny and George clutched in hers, Hermione returned to the dais. Near unwillingly, she let the Weasleys go back to their seats.

More faces passed before her, and Hermione could do nothing but focus on the white-blond head in the crowd.

Like George, Malfoy was letting people pass him in line, holding back 'til the very end of the procession. But as five o'clock neared, there were only seven people separating her from him, and no more stragglers appeared by the gates to give her a last reprieve.

Hermione was very glad for the dark dress robes that hid her shaking knees.

Finally, the last face before Malfoy's thin, pinched one filed past her, and she was faced with the Boy Who Should Have Died. Her mixed feelings about Harry and Ron saving the Slytherin were something that she had spoken of to no one, not even to Ginny; they did not know the extent to which he haunted her.

They did not know that most of her nightmares involved Malfoy finally ending her misery at the Manor.

The whole crowd in front of her was silent, long since having identified Malfoy as the only apparent representative for the other side, and here she was, facing off against him.

Her lungs and head tingled with the pace of her breath. _Oh Merlin, don't faint, don't faint on stage. You are a Gryffindor. Brave, rash, honorable Gryffindor._ Hermione offered Malfoy a very tight, very false smile. "Ferret," she muttered in greeting, stepping aside as he mounted the dais. She pulled her sleeve down even tighter, and to her dismay, the movement drew his eye. He glanced away from her arm as soon as he looked down at it, though, and held out a small, painted portrait to Professor McGonagall. Though the Head of Gryffindor raised her eyebrows to him when nothing seemed to happen with the security test, she let him pass. He came back only half a moment later, brushing away the wrinkles that had been put in the front of his robes by bending over.

Malfoy paused at the edge of the dais and turned fathomless gray eyes on Hermione that were almost unfamiliar to her; they shone in the sunlight, unmarred by the malice that usually nested in the lines around them. His eyes flicked down to her arm again, and Hermione felt her heart rate spike.

He simply said, "Granger," with an inclination of his head and moved back up the aisle.

All of Hermione's air rushed out of her at once. A hand on her elbow steadied her, and her eyes met McGonagall's shrewd ones. The Head of Gryffindor gave her a pointed, curious look. _There can be no mistaking that exchange for something simply linked to our childish antagonism._

Professor McGonagall pointed her wand at her throat again and amplified her voice. "Before we release you to the dinner or to your homes, an announcement must be made," she said. "On June the twenty-third, graduation for this year's seventh years will be held. The school year will not be finished, but those who wish to claim their diplomas may. They are also free to return next year for a more complete education. We encourage you to come to the ceremony and support the students who survived this year of such adversity."

More than one head ducked in the audience, their owners' bodies wracked with renewed sobs.

Pointing Bellatrix's wand at her throat again, Hermione amplified her own voice. "If you would please stand, we will observe a moment of silence before the closing of the ceremony."

The rustle of hundreds of robes and the squeaking of just as many chairs echoed across the grounds, and then the only sound that filled the air was birdsong and the gentle lap of water against the lake shore.

Hermione bowed her head, finally feeling her breathing and her heartbeat slow. The confrontation she had dreaded since Malfoy Manor had come and gone, and she had emerged unharmed - even uninsulted. In fact, she had been the one to land the first and only barb, but that felt almost inconsequential.

Something had changed, and Hermione wasn't sure if it was him, or if it was the world around them.

Lifting her head, Hermione walked around the edge of the White Tomb, discreetly tracing her fingers along its side to bring herself strength. When she reached the wall of memory, she studied the objects left in the cavity that she had carved before returning to the castle the morning before last.

The only one that she had not gotten a close look at was the one that belonged to the man with white-blond hair lurking in the back of the crowd behind her. She sought it out, and her eyes landed on a much younger Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy. A dark-haired woman stood between them, holding a tiny, white-haired infant. All three adults smiled and waved, and the dark-haired woman, who must have been Bellatrix, waved the infant's hand for him.

Hermione's eyebrows drew together and the knot in her stomach twinged. She could not summon a coherent thought for what she saw before her and determined to process it later.

Raising her wand, she quieted the Amplifying Charm and blinked at all the objects. All of them had been so well cared for, even Fred's order form, which she would have expected to be at least crumpled. Instead, it was folded neatly in thirds, the handwriting within it well-preserved.

She bit her lip when she realized that it meant that two pieces of Colin Creevey would be going into the wall of memory.

Raising her wand once more, Hermione whispered, " _Creo marmore_." In a rush of warm, white flames and smoke, new marble grew over all the objects in the wall. Hermione's gaze was torn between focusing on Lily Potter chasing what she knew was Harry on his first broomstick and trying to understand the portrait that Malfoy had left.

In the end, the last she saw of the inside of the wall of memory was the waving fist of an infant Draco Malfoy, held up by long, lithe fingers that were tipped by black-painted nails.

* * *

 _May 5, 1998._

Nearly half the crowd filed into the Great Hall after McGonagall had dismissed the attendees.

Hermione was not one of them.

Instead, she settled on the edge of the dais, letting the rest of the tingles recede from her body. She had to get a handle on this, on her anxiety, especially if she was to speak anywhere else anytime soon. Today, Malfoy seemed to have triggered it, but she had no way to know that it might not have gone off without him, either. Pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes, Hermione rested her elbows on her knees. It was over now, at least, and she could have the rest of the evening to herself.

McGonagall patted her shoulder as she followed the crowd to the Great Hall, and Ron came to ask after her, but Hermione asked him for time to herself. He seemed to accept it as post-speech nerves and followed the rest of his family to the Hall.

She sat in blessed quiet for what felt like hours, listening to the subtle sounds of birdsong and the Giant Squid splashing out in the distance. It felt like it had been ages when she finally looked up again. She had almost expected it to have turned to night time, but the sun still shone brightly behind her, the wall and the tomb casting long shadows over the dais. And while everything was slightly more vivid and green, Hermione recognized that something was off.

A single person remained amidst the hundreds of empty seats: a white-blond man who, while no longer coated in baby fat, was no less enigmatic than the family who had held him in the portrait.

Closing her eyes again, Hermione tried to blink him away, but he was real; he went nowhere between her flashes of vision. She let her wand - his dead aunt's wand - drop out of her sleeve and fully into her hand. She had plans to leave the way she had come in, and he stood between her and Hogsmeade. If he meant to remain in her way, he would find her more inhospitable than he might expect, for a weak creature who did not try to stand her ground.

Hermione's walk toward him, however, became more and more unsteady. Heart racing and lungs taking in only enough air to keep her mostly upright, Hermione did her best to get past him without looking at him.

Malfoy reached out and caught her by the elbow.

Turning on him what she hoped was a scowl worth ten thousand insults, Hermione wrenched out of his grip. "Hands to yourself, Malfoy. You've done quite enough."

Something flashed in his eyes, but he released her immediately when she jerked away. "Apologies, Granger," he said coolly. "I thought perhaps you'd gotten your directions wrong with all the trembling you're doing. Castle's that way." He pointed up toward the great stone building to her left.

"I'm afraid you'd have to know where I was going to think I'd gotten my directions wrong," she growled, shoving past him. "Move."

To his credit, he did move, but not in the way she had hoped: Malfoy simply hurried to stand a few paces in front of her. "Not going to the feast with Potter and Weasley?" he asked, and though his tone held his usual mockery, the brows that had dipped low over the bridge of his nose showed genuine confusion.

"It's not a _feast_ , it's a _dinner_. And no, I'm not." Growing impatient, Hermione tipped her wand up for a moment, a tiny threat. "Get out of my way."

This time, Malfoy stood his ground, arms crossing. "Granger, I'm trying to talk to you."

Hermione's wand flicked up to his throat. Malfoy's hands immediately went up in a gesture of innocence. "No," she said. "You don't get to speak to me, you little pure-blood speck. Or had you forgotten that that's what you are?" She pressed the wand deeper into his skin. "But then, how could you, when I hold in my hand the wand that labeled me? I am the opposite of you, remember?" she hissed. "And when you are an arrogant, spoiled sycophant who had so devalued someone he knew that he wouldn't save her from torture because she was _weak_ , I could not be more proud to be the opposite of you."

Malfoy's expression grew dark, and he shoved her wand away from his throat. An angry red mark appeared under his chin where the wand had been. "I was an arrogant, spoiled sycophant once," he muttered, "but I did not do what you last accused me of. Those may have been the words you heard, but that was not my intention."

"The road to hell is _paved_ with good intentions, Malfoy," she spat, striding past him. She picked up the hem of her dress robes to avoid stepping on them. When she reached the gate that would take her to the road to Hogsmeade, Hermione looked back. He was standing there, watching her, face pensive once more. "And, in case you were wondering," she shouted at him, "I'm not going to the dinner because I didn't have any family left to lose at the battle."

Storing away the gaping expression that her words put on his face, Hermione pushed her way through the creaking gates and slammed them shut with a _clang_.


	4. Struggle

_May 17, 1998_.

The bright yellow dress that Luna wore made Hermione hug her even tighter when they met in the square of Ottery St. Catchpole. Ron, despite his continuing insistence that she had more than a little bit of lunacy flowing in her veins, embraced Luna right after Hermione released her. The blond girl smiled at them, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. Hermione couldn't help but be reminded of their smiling faces and the word _friends_ written in spiraling gold.

In the days that had passed since the memorial, Hermione had returned to the Burrow, fighting exhaustion and sleep; after their dinner, the Weasleys had come home, all worn out and ready to settle into a quiet evening. She and Ron had wrapped themselves in a blanket on the couch. He'd let her sleep, taking her hair clumsily out of its pins and running a soothing hand over her bruised scalp. The bushiness, of course, had been released from its magical bonds by the next morning, and Ron had woken to a ball of frizz in his face, per usual.

In the morning, she had professed an intense desire to search out her parents. Ron and Harry had accompanied her to her home, where they found brochures and fliers for houses for sale in Australia strewn across the coffee table. She had chosen not the one on top of the pile, but the one with the star in the corner - her mother had always marked stars in the files of outstanding patients, on lists on the refrigerator, in the old drafts that Hermione had seen of her school papers. Hermione had gone up to her room and found that it had been left completely untouched, and when she pulled open her desk drawer, she found the roses. They were not quite together anymore, after seven years of being held and jostled around in _Hogwarts: A History_ in her schoolbag, but they had at least stayed in a pile. She'd nearly grabbed a locket from her jewelry box to nestle a petal in, but her hand had stopped an inch away from the chain. She had worn quite enough of those for this lifetime.

Instead, Hermione had reached into her beaded bag and pulled out _Hogwarts: A History_. The pages were a bit more indented than they had been when her journey had begun, having been bumped around in the bag for a year, but when she tucked a few petals between the pages, it felt as though things might finally be heading back toward normality.

Returning Luna's smile, Hermione looked to Ron. "We'll be back sometime in the next three days, depending on the portkey we take," she said. "Percy set them all up to bring us to the hill again, so we should be home by nine in the morning..."

"I know," Ron replied. "And I still want to go with you. We never listened to Harry when he said we couldn't come, did we?"

"No, I know we didn't, but these are my parents." Letting out a shaky breath, Hermione fluttered a hand over her hair, which she'd contained in a slightly more comfortable ponytail than what Ginny had put it in for the memorial days earlier. "Besides, I shouldn't be in any danger in Australia, unlike when Harry was running around the countryside on the most wanted list."

"Australia is home to many magical creatures, though," said Luna, her lilting, dreamy voice turning their attention to her. "Father and I have always wanted to go there, you know. The nargles thrive there. It's a shame he'll miss it."

"I'm sure Xenophilius will be happy to go another time," Hermione assured the younger Ravenclaw. Luna had retrieved her father from Azkaban in the week after the war; he had only just now become well enough to leave on his own again, but just in case, he had gone to stay at the Fawcetts', who were newly returned to their cottage.

"Luna," began Ron hesitantly, and Hermione sensed a point coming. "Aren't nargles the invisible creatures that mess with your brain?"

"Wrackspurts mess with your brain. Nargles are thieves. They only do that if you stand under their mistletoe for too long, though," she said brightly. "There must be quite a lot of mistletoe in Australia. Father says they like it there more than they do here."

"Ronald," warned Hermione, casting a sidelong look at Luna.

"Are you _sure_ you don't want me to go?" The blue in his eyes seemed to get more vivid as he stared at her, his long red lashes brushing his cheeks when he blinked. "The nargles could be dangerous."

Sighing, Hermione reached a hand around his waist and pulled herself closer to him, very aware of the younger girl right behind them who gazed at the hills in the distance. With one arm under his ribs, Hermione looked up at him. Her other hand touched the back of his neck, bringing his forehead to hers. "We'll be fine. Luna and I can look out for one another just as well as you and Harry look after each other." Part of her wondered if that was an accurate statement, considering the trouble the two of them routinely got into, but they certainly had fun together, when they weren't fighting. She tried to ignore the memories of their silent treatment in fourth year.

Ron wrapped her in his arms and Hermione breathed in his scent, a clean, soapy scent from the shower he'd had before they'd left the Burrow. The warmth of his fingers pressing gently into her ribs felt so right she thought she might never pull away.

"Hermione," said Luna, "we'll miss the portkey."

Closing her eyes, Hermione let out a breath and bumped her head lightly against his chest. _Too soon._

Fingers cold from their walk lifted her chin. "Hey," murmured Ron. "If you don't make it back, Harry and I will come find you. We will always find you. Alright?"

Hermione swallowed, blinking up into his eyes. "Alright," she replied hoarsely. Her eyes started to drift downward again, his gaze too intense to keep for long.

"I love you."

Her eyes snapped back to his face. Some kind of pained look had replaced his reassuring, smiling eyes, pleading with her. "I… I love you, too," she said, her stomach wrenching with nerves of a new kind.

The smile that lit up his face made her insides flutter, and he leaned down to brush a soft kiss against her lips. "I'll see you when you come home."

Hermione nodded, standing on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. "I'll see you soon."

With more than one look back at Ron as they walked away, Hermione and Luna crossed the village toward Stoatshead Hill. Her heart ached to leave him standing there, but she had started this on her own. They had to do some things apart from each other.

And when she returned, she would have a home of her own again, just like him.

* * *

 _May 17, 1998_.

Australia was warmer than Hermione had expected. The sun was already low in the sky when they landed in a copse of trees in what could only be a public park, by the mowed green grass and the rows of trees along the pavements. Once Luna had let go of their portkey - a year-old _Quibbler_ , which the younger Ravenclaw had been eager to reread - Hermione stowed it in her bag. "That magazine will reactivate tomorrow at five, so we need to be back here by then," said Hermione. "If we're not, we'll have to go to the Australian Wizarding Authority and get to one of the other two that Percy scheduled through them."

With a slight nod, Luna stepped out of their hiding place. The breeze played with her hair, tangling the white-gold wisps until she brushed it out of her face again. "Australia is so green," she said, her voice carrying wistfully on the breeze.

Hermione squinted at the park around them. Everything had a hue of gray to her eyes - and it was no surprise to her, for it was technically winter here. But, if Luna had expected a dry brown desert, as she herself would've, had she not done her research, Hermione supposed that the sagebrush color of their surroundings might be considered green.

She already missed the isles.

"Come on, we've got to find a taxi," murmured Hermione to the dreamy young woman beside her. Just to be sure she didn't drift away, Hermione took Luna's hand. "I've no clue if Australia has a transport for wizards, so we'll be using Muggle means."

As if on cue, Luna lowered the Spectrespecs she had been pulling from her bag back into their pocket. _Ron must have given her ideas about wrackspurts with that comment_ , thought Hermione, groaning inwardly.

"You have Muggle money?" asked Luna.

With a nod, Hermione pulled a handful of brightly colored bills from her pocket, all folded neatly together in order of their value. "Gringotts exchanged some for me."

Nearly an hour later, their bright yellow cab pulled up in front of a suburban house with a sad lawn. Wendell and Monica Wilkins clearly did not have the green thumbs of her parents, if there even was such a thing as a green thumb in this place. "Ambleside Avenue, miss," said the driver, a dark-haired man with warm brown eyes. He had been the only one they'd met to even contemplate the forty kilometer drive out of the city. "And your total's seventy-two thirty-four."

After handing him eighty Australian dollars and telling him to keep the change, Hermione hauled herself out of the vehicle, pulling Luna right after. Before closing the door, she stuck her head back in. "Thank you," she said, giving him a smile.

The young man gave her a nod. "I don't know why you're here," he replied, his voice solemn, "but even we heard about the battle for Britain."

Hermione's eyes widened, and her hand went to her puffy ponytail. She'd put it up specifically to avoid recognition; just two days ago, the _Prophet_ had called her mane her "frizzy trademark," much to the dismay of herself and Ginny, and to the laughter of one Ronald Weasley. Harry had stayed stoically silent on the subject. "Why is a wizard driving a taxi?" she hissed, her voice high with incredulity.

"Squib," he said matter-of-factly, and Hermione was relieved not to hear an ounce of shame in his voice. Too much of that had been passed around based on blood status in the last centuries. Perhaps Australia was different. All the same, she dropped her scarred arm from the roof of the vehicle, in case he saw what was written above the seam of her sleeve. "Whatever you're doing, I hope it's sanctioned by AWA. They're rather strict about ops on their soil by Brits. They don't want that prejudice here."

"It's not sanctioned, but it's not the sort of thing that needs to be," she muttered, shutting the car door. Apparently, Australia knew more than she thought - far more than anyone would want them, or any other country to know. International relations were already strained by the Ministry's ineptitude. In the last few days, Kingsley had been working desperately to piece back together the shards of dignity that their nation still had. He'd even had to call on _France_ for aid.

The driver rolled down the window. "Look, I'm not going to report you or anything. Merlin only knows what you want with suburbia - I hope it's to find some place quiet to lie low. You'd deserve some peace." His brow furrowed as he leaned across the console. "Just be careful. You just got your home back."

One corner of Hermione's mouth came up in a lopsided smile. "My home is with the people I love," she told him. "And they -" she pointed to the deep blue door of the house across the street "- are on the other side of that wall."

Raising his eyebrows at her, the driver leaned around to get a better look at the place, then began to roll up the window. "Well, whatever they're doing there, I can't argue with that. Stay off AWA's radar." With one last wave, he cruised away, and Hermione breathed for what felt like the first time in an hour.

Luna, who had been standing on the pavement studying the place, spoke up. "Well, he was quite nosy."

"Curiosity is in the nature of caring people," Hermione replied. "At least he seemed to care about my wellbeing more than he did about the fact that we're currently breaking several international laws just by being here."

The blue-eyed witch gave her an owlish look. "Laws have never stopped us before."

Shaking her head, Hermione started across the street. "They used to stop me, and after this, I'll be bending them back into place."

With her heart in her throat, Hermione raised her hand to the knocker. Its metal was warm in her grasp, and before she could think about leaving her parents in peace, she rapped it against the door.


	5. Pride

_May 17, 1998._

Her mother had changed her hair color. No longer was Sarah Jean Granger a fluffy-haired blond like her daughter; instead, she wore her hair straightened and sleek down to her shoulders, its color a rich brunette.

It struck Hermione as incredibly foreign.

"Can I help you?" asked the woman who was called Monica Wilkins. The Scottish accent Hermione loved so well had already softened in a way that only her ears could hear.

"Mrs. Wilkins," Hermione said, her hands clasped behind her back, the wickedly curved wand held between them. _Merlin, I can't do this_. How could she trust it to work on this, the dearest of her tasks? Gods, all she wanted was to bring them home, but this wand, the wand of that _woman_ , stood between herself and her true parents.

Luna's soft fingers curled around the edge of her hand, and Hermione took a steadying breath.

"I know you don't recognize me, but there is something that I desperately need to discuss with you and your husband."

Her mother's eyebrows raised at the word "desperately," but she didn't let them in the door. "Wendell!" she called over her shoulder. "There are some teenagers here to see us?"

From another room in the house, Hermione heard something clatter. "Teenagers?" replied her father's voice, and soon he appeared in the doorway next to his wife - wearing a suit, of all things. Gerald Granger had always been more inclined toward scrubs than suits, being a dentist. Hermione's own eyebrows went up at the sight of him. The new memories had changed them, and in more ways than she had expected.

She'd almost forgotten how young she would look to anyone who didn't know what she'd been through: eighteen, probably younger. Luna would look even more juvenile, with her cherubic face and bright dress. These people who were her parents in some part of their minds would know how much weight she had lost; they would see the defined lines of her face and the deep shadows beneath her eyes.

"It's a little late to be soliciting for school, isn't it?" asked Mr. Wilkins, wiping his fingers on the towel he held.

"We've come from Britain to see you," said Luna from behind Hermione. The girl's Scottish accent seemed to strike a chord with Mrs. Wilkins, for she exchanged a glance with her husband.

"It's true," confirmed Hermione, looking between the people who had once been her parents.

Exchanging one more look, Monica and Wendell Wilkins seemed to contemplate the girls standing on their doorstep. Finally, Mr. Wilkins stepped aside. "You'd better come in, then," he said, and Hermione slipped past them, hiding her wand up her sleeve. Luna held onto her other hand as they stepped into the entryway.

"Is there somewhere we could sit down?" asked Hermione, and Mrs. Wilkins led her to a living room, where a pair of sofas faced one another. The color scheme was so different from what she expected of her warm, genuine mother; everything about the house had a cool scheme, light blues and whites, with an occasional touch of navy. Their house at home had turned all yellow-toned creams and reds since Hermione had been Sorted. _To make you feel closer to your home away from home, and for us to feel closer to you when you're there,_ her mother had said.

This place did not feel like home.

After Mr. Wilkins had made tea and all sipped it, Monica put her cup down on the coffee table between the sofas. It clinked softly on its saucer. "Now, why in Merlin's name have you come this far to see _us_?"

Hermione's mouth quirked up. Well, her mother's favorite line of magical origin hadn't faded, at least. Slowly, she pulled the crooked wand from the sleeve of her sweatshirt. "To return something you've lost," she murmured.

"You're here to present us with a stick?" asked Monica, the incredulity high in her voice.

"No," whispered Hermione, looking down at the wand. "This is much more than just a stick." Her eyes rose from the wand to focus on the faces of her parents. They both looked at her like she had been dropped on her head.

Raising the wand and swaying it at each of them in turn, Hermione muttered, " _Memento omnia_."

Moments passed, and as Hermione watched, the Wilkins' gazes lost focus, peering somewhere out into the middle distance. They no longer stared at Luna's sunny dress or the crooked wand; instead, their eyes clouded over, white mist forming across irises and pupils.

"Is it working?" asked Luna, her voice hushed against the jarringly loud ticking of the clock on the wall behind them.

Hermione had no answer.

Minutes dragged in silence as Monica and Wendell Wilkins stared past them, gazes rapt on Hermione knew not what. Worried, Hermione looked down at the walnut wand. She gripped it on either side of its bend, knuckles turning white against smooth dark wood. She could feel Luna's gaze on her hands - Hermione was almost certain that the Ravenclaw had felt the sting of Bellatrix's wrath, as well, and probably by this wand. Unable to look at the younger girl, Hermione nearly shoved the wand back up her sleeve, but couldn't bring herself to let go of it. If this failed, if her parents never awoke from their dreamlike state, the crooked wand would know her wrath.

She would snap it without a second thought.

As if sensing her distrust, the thing shot red and gold sparks from its tip.

"That's not your wand," murmured a feminine voice.

Hermione's gaze snapped to the face of the woman who was distinctly her mother.

Sarah Jean Granger watched her with brown eyes that felt warm again, and her Scottish accent had returned with all the vigor that she remembered. Beside his wife, Gerald Granger blinked at her, recognition forming slowly.

Hermione vaulted the coffee table to get her arms around them. The walnut wand fell to the floor somewhere along the way, lifeless once it lost contact with her skin. Every bit of tension she'd wound up over the last months fell away when their warmth enveloped her.

Words were far beyond her. Dangerously rapid breaths escaped her lungs and throat, threatening to turn into sobs, and tears streaked from her eyes. She absorbed everything: the softness of her mother's hair against her cheek, the solid strength of her father's arms wrapped around her, the hot line her mother's fingers made against her skin as she tucked some of Hermione's hair behind her ear. Swaddled in their embrace, she buried her face in her mother's shoulder, breathing in her scent. Her perfume was different, but ever after, she would recognize it as the one her mother had been wearing the day she'd gotten her back. It smelled of wild oranges - perhaps another remnant that Monica Wilkins had retained of Sarah Granger's life. The miniature orange tree that Hermione had brought home in fourth year, courtesy of Neville and his newfound affinity for herbology, still grew in its magical shrine in their home in England. The preservation charm had been one of the first she'd cast when her Trace had broken.

When at last they separated, Hermione did not let them go willingly. Her mother pried her off her father's arm and fitted her fingers between her daughter's, and her father followed suit, taking Hermione's other hand. She would have been content to hold them for the rest of their respective lives, but she doubted that they would enjoy the blubbering that would go with it. Instead, she settled between them, squishing into the crevice between the couch cushions and huddling in their warmth.

Across the way, Luna smiled brilliantly.

"Now, dear, if you're comfortable," said her father, "I think it's time you told us why you sent us to _Australia_ , of all places."

* * *

 _May 17, 1998._

"Harry _died_ , Mum," she said, nearly at the end of her story. That horrible moment flashed before her eyes again, the moment when all had been lost, if only for a minute or two. Ginny's scream echoed in her ears, and Neville's protests. "But when Riddle cast that curse, he killed a piece of himself, as well."

Once more, her father stared at her like she'd been dropped on her head, and this time, it was a look that was more familiar. The wizarding world was hard to explain to her parents, as much as she tried.

Her mother, on the other hand, looked absolutely stricken. "Harry's died?" she cried, her gaze flicking back and forth between Luna and her daughter. "We never got to know the poor boy!"

Across the coffee table, Luna shook her head frantically. "The story's not over yet," she said, and Hermione gave the girl a small smile.

"Harry survived the curse somehow, although I'm not really very clear about how it worked." Her mouth twisted into a frown, still dissatisfied with the whole unknown aspect of the death of the sixth Horcrux, the one that had lived inside Harry since he'd been little more than a year old. "He said that he'd been given a choice, to fight or to let go. To stay or to board a train to somewhere far away, according to him." Closing her eyes, she shook her head. "I have yet to understand it, but he came back for us. He stopped Voldemort and put an end to the war." She didn't quite say that Harry _killed_ Riddle. It seemed too harsh, to lay that concept out for her parents, for that to be what they remembered the next time they saw Harry. Neither party deserved it.

Neither did she tell them about the letters carved into her arm, which were angry, red, and faintly sore even two months later. While her parents knew Voldemort had been evil… That darkness was a part of her she would keep to herself at all costs. With a look at Luna, Hermione wondered if she kept the same darkness from her father - if, somewhere on her pale skin, were etched bloody letters of a different kind. Bellatrix had seemed fond of Hermione's own branding, and perhaps a bit more than practiced at it. If Luna had been marked, it was somewhere that her sleeveless, knee-length dress did not reveal.

"I'm sorry, love," said her father. "I wish there had been another way for us to help you, aside from forgetting ourselves." Mr. Granger looked slightly confused as he said the words, as though the last nine months had been some strange dream.

Giving her father a grim smile, Hermione rested her head on the back of the couch and let out a breath. After a moment, she steeled herself enough to look into his eyes. "The only way to keep you safe was for you to not know me. You had to _be_ the Wilkins, be entirely in character at all times. If things hadn't been so dire, you could have been under cover here, but not even the government was to be trusted."

A laugh came bellowing out of his throat. "When is the government ever to be trusted?"

For the first time in nine months, Hermione's cheeks ached from a true smile.


End file.
